


On The Pull

by Heyerette



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bilbo is a no-nonsense Nurse, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, One Shot, Prompt Fic, Romance, Thorin is not a Happy Patient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyerette/pseuds/Heyerette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While in Lake-Town, Thorin acquires an injury that forces him to stay in bed. Making him remain in the same is a task not for the faint-hearted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Pull

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinysparks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinysparks/gifts).



> I was working on the first chapter of the next part of my series when shinysparks happened. Who is an evil, evil enabler and not beneath using her poor friend´s real life pain for her own ficitional purposes. And thus prompted me to scribble something that involved an ankle injury and Thorin. And some cuddling. Any and all complaints should be laid at her door and hers alone. 
> 
> That said, have a little silly fluff as a pre-Valentine´s Day gift. There is this bit towards the end that may possibly count as an attempt at smut only I can´t do even the mildest smut to safe my life so it sought refuge in absurdity. Again. I tried. And the title will make sense. Eventually. I hope. They always sound way more important and thought-out than the fic itself actually is, in my case *shakes head at self*. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

„Psst. Mister Boggins.“

The hobbit cringed, resisting the temptation to bury his face in the book in his hands, which would be the variety on the ever popular defensive measure, since said hands were presently occupied. With said book. It would not be _hiding_. That would be very undignified. And improper. But he was not going to deny that his sense of self-preservation would have a very excellent case if it should be contemplating any such action. He trusted it. It had served him rather well. On this quest. On the whole. The small, negligible matters of trolls and orcs and wargs and goblins and riddle-favouring, precious-fixated creatures aside. And right then it was signalling to the hobbit that sinking into the rather comfortable if decidedly oversized armchair would be a very good idea indeed! Except – 

“Oh _please_ , Mr Boggins!”

And there were those eyes again. 

And they were even bigger than mere hours ago! 

How did that dratted boy even – 

Eru knew he should be a hard-hearted, entirely resistant, unmoveable hobbit at that stage; he had suffered more than enough exposure to them, after all, but no, all it took where those big, big, sad, pleading, entirely sneaky and absolutely hateful dark puppy eyes and he was putty in the shameless dwarf´s hands. 

And really! 

Did he _have_ to take to _whining_ now, too?!

The hobbit eyed the bane of his existence with unmistakable loathing.

Which earned him one of those very bright, very happy, very The-Clouds-Will-Disappear-The-Snow-Will-Melt-And-So-Will-Your-Not-At-All-Hardened-Hobbit-Heart smiles.

Right.

That was it.

That – that –

“Your mother would be _ashamed_ of you!”

“Nah”, the young dwarf reassured the seething hobbit blithely, moving further into the room. “Ma always made Dwalin look after uncle when he was sick. Eventually. Hates his caterwauling. Mind you”, Kili continued almost thoughtfully, sinking into the other chair after snatching a biscuit from the plate next to the hobbit´s elbow – “she´s not too fond of having things thrown at her head, either.”

The hobbit heaved a resigned sigh, all the while asking himself what he had done to deserve fate´s really quite cruel cruelty. It must have been very awfully horrible, considering - 

“What was it _this_ time?”

“Hm?” There went some crumbs. Onto the carpet. Really. “The mug. Almost hit me with it, too!” The grin made a spectacular comeback. “Which is why _you_ should go, Bilbo! Uncle would _never_ throw things at _you_!”

That wonderfully innocent, disinterested remark earned the dwarf a deathly hobbit glare. 

Which naturally resulted in those eyes taking to widening again and – 

Oh no, no, no. No.

Not again.

Not that soon after the other.

He would not stand for it.

No.

Right.

So.

Mugs.

Drink.

Someone _had_ to take the medicine to the dwarf.

And make him drink it.

Someone who had more common sense than to allow him to throw _things_ at their heads. Or other body parts. 

Really.

_Dwarves._

The hobbit heaved his exasperated form out of the chair.

Muttering to himself about the general uselessness and extreme oversensitivity of dwarves and their shameless princely offspring, he resolutely made his way to the patient´s chamber. 

~ ~ ~ ~

Apparently, it had all been _Master Baggins´s_ fault.

It would all never have happened if _Master Baggins_ had not had the impudence to be taken ill.

And he had only been taken ill because his foolish plan of escape from the Mirkwood dungeons had involved the travelling down of an icy cold river in wooden barrels – during which he had not even had the common sense to put himself into a barrel but chose to _ride_ on one of the same! Or next to one, depending on the stage of the journey – which had also been extremely undignified and impractical and inconvenient and while they were naturally grateful to him for finding themselves out of their prison and alive, he Should Have Known Better.

He should have known that the king would have wanted to not only enquire after his health but to ascertain for himself that a member of his company was not very much at death´s door, no matter what any healer might have been assuring him of!

And then he had chosen to be laid up in a chamber so far removed from the king´s own that reaching the same not only involved the navigation of poorly laid out corridors in the dark but also the conquest of numerous staircases and it was very much to be hoped that _Master Baggins_ was fully aware that any additionally required haste or delay in connection with their quest to retake Erebor would all have to be laid at his door!

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo had been torn between acquainting His Majesty with the to His Majesty hitherto largely unknown Took-ish side of his very much – if hidden under a lovely, respectable coat of proper hobbit-ish manners, thank you – existing temper and – a mulish, whiny Thorin Oakenshield was surprisingly endearing! - arranging his thoughts around the fact that the dwarf had been concerned. For him.

Well, yes – their relationship, if it could be called that, _had_ improved considerably after he had found himself firmly and warmly hugged to a lovely rock of a chest up on the Carrock (once he had got over the shock, that is, and had been capable of semi-coherent thought again), during their brief respite in the skinchanger´s home and Thorin had trusted him enough to free the company from their imprisonment in the Elven King´s halls. But were they friends?

The hobbit could not help hoping they were. He ...

Liked the dwarf.

King.

Thorin.

A lot.

Despite his grumpiness and his temper and his stubbornness and his rudeness and his high-handedness (really, did he _have_ to send for the Master´s personal healer in addition to inflicting Oin on him – who, thankfully, had put his dwarven foot down and had not tolerated any interference in his dealings with his patient - and make a poor hobbit swallow the most vile concoctions possible when their illness was simply a mere head cold and they were perfectly able to deal with them in the usual hobbity way that was tea and rest and sleep and more tea, possibly involving the use of a handkerchief or two?) and his handsome - 

Well, that was not a bad point, exactly.

And one the hobbit preferred not to dwell upon because dwelling upon it would be very, very stupid and entirely disruptive for the workings of an organ which could generally be found around the vicinity of the breastbone. Steadily at work. And he did not need to excite it. Any further. No, thank you.

Well, his cold was almost fully gone and someone had to convince the stupid dwarf that stomping about on a bad ankle that needed to be kept still was an extremely idiotic notion, especially if the owner of the brain that was housed in the body of the person said ankle was attached to intended to march upon a mountain in due course. And with his elder nephew forced to endure the overbearing solicitude of the Master of Lake-Town in his uncle´s stead, Dwalin and Balin at his side, and his younger nephew having quite lost his passion for family visits when his uncle progressed from mere scathing words and threats and even the odd insult - which Kili had heroically and cheerfully ignored, even if his insides had begun to quake at a time or two - to rather more physical expression of his discontent by way of hurling inanimate objects within his reach (a book, a plate, his half-full glass and now the mug) at whoever had been so unfortunate as to stir his particular wrath – usually the person attempting to convince him that He Needed To Stay In Bed – it was left to Bilbo to deal with the cantankerous object of his - 

Friend.

King.

Because the others had made themselves quite scarce.

The traitors.

Even Dori and you´d think the fussy dwarf would be quite used to mothering obstinate, petulant _children_. But Ori probably never gave him any trouble at all and - 

Squaring his shoulders, the hobbit knocked on the massive door.

~ ~ ~ ~

“ _What_ have you done _now_?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin glared.

Fiercely.

If only to preserve his kingly dignity.

Which had taken quite a blow, considering.

He had only wanted to open the window a little. He had become quite sick of all the silence and quietness surrounding him and since no hobb- _one_ saw fit to visit him he had decided upon letting the sounds from the street into his current prison, which really was only marginally better than the recent dungeon prison and that was merely due to the fact that it came with a proper bed. And better meals. The solitude, however - 

And he would not be finding himself sitting on the cold wooden floor if the hobbit, - who was currently eyeing him with supreme indifference to his plight; arms crossed and one hairy foot tapping. Tapping! - had seen fit to come to him _sooner_!

It was all the hobbit´s fault, of course.

Had the hobbit not taken ill, had he not made Thorin worry so - 

He was King.

It was his duty to worry about those under his protection. Leadership. Especially those small, soft, fragile, tender-hearted individuals who - 

Who clearly did not care that he was injured and in pain and nearly bored out of his mind. He had thought better of the hobbit! He should be doing hobbit-ish things, shouldn´t he? 

Enquire after his well-being.

Whether he had want – or need – of anything.

Bring him proper hobbit meals.

Sneak him some of those hazelnut wonders he knew the hobbit capable of producing (he had _not_ hoarded them during their brief stay at Bag End, no matter what Dwalin had to say!).

Offer him distraction.

Companionship.

 _Care_ for the king.

Instead, the little creature just stood there, clearly quite cross and not at all moved by his pitiful state.

Which he should be.

Moved.

Because Thorin was …. King.

He deserved all the care and attention his position commanded. And that meant he deserved all of the _hobbit´s_ care and attention.

Even if he wasn´t the hobbit´s king.

The hobbit had signed the contract, the hobbit was therefore part of the company, the hobbit was therefore subject to the company´s king.

Whatever the hobbit may have to share about that.

Which had been a lot.

As of late.

Especially when Thorin had refused to sample the porridge the hobbit had brought him. 

Porridge.

If that was the hobbit´s idea of _nurturing_ …

The king made a face.

He would have swallowed the porridge if he had known that it would _hurt_ the hobbit´s feelings. Possibly. Maybe.

The hobbit really was insufferably huffy.

And he wanted the hobbit to sit with him.

The hobbit did not annoy him.

Mostly.

Or plague him.

Usually.

Not anymore.

But for that precise moment.

~ ~ ~ ~

“I have done _nothing_ , Master Baggins. I informed you before that I had no intention of spending my days abed. I will -”

Bilbo rolled his eyes, quite ignoring the haughty kingliness he was being favoured with. Instead, he bent to support the king´s elbow with a hand and - 

“Hobbit. _What_ are you doing?”

Oh, but that was quite close - 

For the king´s head.

In relation to his own.

And those eyes were really very, very blue.

And presently glaring at him.

Honestly.

Dwarves.

It was not as if he had been _trying_ anything. He was a proper, respectable hobbit and had no notion of molesting injured kings. 

Much.

Right.

“Helping your majesty up. You clearly cannot manage it on your own or you would have long stood and berated me on my many hobbit-failings so _please_ , let me help you. And no-one need to know about it. I promise to take the secret to my grave. And just think! The sooner you are healed the sooner we will get to the Lonely Mountain and the sooner you will be rid of me! There - ” It was surprisingly easy to lead the unresisting dwarf back to his bed. Bilbo must have really impressed him with his sound reasoning. Yes. Wonderful. “Here we are. Now that wasn´t so bad, was it?”

His encouraging smile, which was the successor of that gentle, soothing tone of voice he had always successfully employed when dealing with the horrors and tragedies in the lives of the fauntlings of the Shire – hair pulling, slugs in bed, no cake before dinner and all that - met with a severely furrowed brow.

“Thorin?”

The frown deepened, then -

“You think I wish to scold you. That I wish for you to leave.”

Uhm - 

“Well, no. That is – not at this present moment, at least. You couldn´t really, you know. Scold me, I mean. You may, of course, attempt it at your kingly leisure, your majesty -” The hobbit had gently possessed himself of the injured foot and propped the same up on a thick, fluffy cushion. “But since you are currently stuck on that bed, I will be long gone before so much as a verbal slap reaches me. I would just run away!” The attempt at levity did not meet with any reaction, desired or otherwise. But for that rather unnerving stare. Really, you´d think he would be used to all of the king´s glowers and glares and stares and disapproval and - 

“I don´t.”

Oh.

Well.

That was good, then.

Good to know.

Quite.

“Well, that´s, uhm – thank you. I think. Now -” How was it even possible for that frown to deepen any further? And why must that tiny, little _crease_ appear on the dwarf´s forehead and make the hobbit feel tempted to smooth it away? He had an ankle to take care of, since it would not take care of itself and would definitely not be taken care of by its owner, as they had seen. Countless times over the past few days. “Let me see if you´ve harmed your poor foot even more with your latest escapade. You are worse than your nephews, you know! Hm - “ he had began rummaging about on a table - “Oin said he left some fresh bandages somewhere – and Kili gave me the salve so -”

The dwarf folded his arms, his back pressed into quite an impressive array of cushions which had been propped up against the headboard, his expression decidedly stubborn. 

“He deserved it.”

“You threw a mug at him, Thorin. Your own nephew. Ah – there they are! Now -” The hobbit had turned back to the bed holding up his findings as if to convey his readiness to defend himself; body and spirit. “Will your majesty allow me to change them and prepare your medication or am I in danger of having a boot hurled at me?”

There was a low, dangerous growl to be caught from atop the cushioned throne - 

Which Bilbo ignored.

Pointedly.

“Because I will tell you right now, Thorin Oakenshield, I have no tolerance for being used as target practise! I may not be kin to you – and Eru knows even _that_ would not stop you! - but I am a hobbit and a burglar, _not_ a pin cushion for when the mood should strike you! So -” The hobbit had started to gently unwrap the existing bandage -” - you will let me help you and -”

“I would not hurt you.”

Bilbo´s head shot up.

To find the dwarf staring at him, his dark gaze unfathomable.

Well, that was – really - 

Oh confound the dwarf and his stares and his unreadability! Could he not just make _conversation_ , like anyone else? Talk? So that confused hobbits had a chance of understanding what was going on behind that unfairly handsome countenance, behind those very deep blue eyes? Bilbo considered himself fairly reasonable when it came to differences in temper and personality, thank you, but with _Thorin_ \- 

Or perhaps he was just being unfair.

Perhaps he was just reading things into … _things_.

The dwarf had, if looked at it dispassionately, merely given him permission to see to his injury. In a roundabout, Thorin-ish way. Extremely Thorin-ish way. Which he should be quite used to by then. Yes. That. 

Therefore - 

“That´s good, then. Tell me if this hurts -” The thick, scented salve was generously applied to the injured ankle, the hobbit taking care to make the process as painless as possible. It seemed that the swelling had gone down a bit; the colouring was definitely better. No that angrily red and blue and green any longer. His fingers lingered a bit on the worst part of the bruise, spreading the ointment liberally. Gently, he thought. 

Which caused the dwarf to stiffen.

Had he -

“Thorin! I am _so_ sorry, I did not intend to – I meant to be gentle and - I´ll get Oin; he will -”

The slightly frantic hobbit abruptly halted in his apologetic ramble, eyes a little wide.

But that could be attributed to the calloused hand that was suddenly covering his. Which was staying it. And not only that, it was guiding it back towards the injury. And a thumb may have been stroking a knuckle or two, but the hobbit was probably just imagining _that_.

Uhm - 

Concentrate.

He had much better concentrate. 

Or he would just make it worse. And this time it would not be the dwarf´s fault.

Right.

He was going to bandage the ankle up and then make him swallow the awful, smelly brew Oin had insisted would not only lessen the pain but make the dwarf more – bendable. Pliant. (Oin´s words. Not his. He would never wish to _bend_ the king – anywhere. In any way. Or form. Ever. At all. Thank you very much!) And then he would take his leave and go back to his book and his tea. Yes.

He went back to work. Reapplying a clean bandage, then securing it, then coaxing the king into not making another fuss over his medication and -

Maybe a little tighter. In case the stupid dwarf should entertain any stupid ideas again.

There. All done. 

The hobbit stepped back from the bed, briefly admiring his work before reaching for the bottle that contained what had had the younger Durins flee their uncle´s chamber while pinching their noses shut and loudly complaining about _Mahal! The stench!”_ Little miscreants. Not that their uncle was much better but he would take it and -

“Bilbo.”

“Hm?”

Perhaps a little more than strictly necessary? Seeing Thorin had seen fit to put pressure on that ankle and - 

The hobbit eyed the liquid substance thoughtfully and -

“I - _NO._ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

He was _not_ going to take it.

No matter how much the hobbit huffed and rolled his eyes and attempted to stare him into submission (that was almost cute!) and waved his little hands around while informing him how ridiculous and childish and obstinate and bullheaded he was being.

Which he wasn´t.

He just was not going to swallow that - 

It was entirely offensive.

It smelled.

It tasted like Dwalin´s socks after not having been changed for weeks and having been forced into his old, worn, inexplicably favourite boots which he had tramped around in in mud and rain and snow and hail and all possible weather calamities combined. 

Or that was what they _would_ taste like.

He would ask one of the guards. 

They would know.

Dwalin enjoyed a particular viciousness when it came to punishment. 

“- because quite honestly, _your majesty_ ; you are an _utter_ cloth-head and I do not even _know_ why I _bother_ with you! Yes, and I was going to ask Bombur for some of the nuts he procured at the market to make you - but I should probably give them _all_ to Fili and Kili and -”

He was going to bake for him?

The hobbit was going to bake for him.

He wanted the hobbit to bake for him.

Thorin wanted the hobbit to bake for him and then to deliver the little delicious treasures to his chamber and he would even be willing to partake of the little creature´s insipid tea (Why was he even fond of that leave-brew? The hobbit should be drinking wine! When they got to Erebor and had rid the mountain of the beast he was going to send for some wine from the cellars and see if any would be sufficiently suitable so as to make the hobbit a gift of a case. Or ten.) if it meant the hobbit would keep him company and - 

“... really, I fully see now where the boys have got it from, you are even _worse_ than _both_ of them – and I am not interested in your glares, thank you very much! - _they_ can at least be coaxed out of their _pig_ headedness! But you, _you_ , Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain of Obstinacy, _you_ are just behaving like a spoiled little dwarfling and if you were not so _big_ I would bend you over my knee and – and _spank_ you! Yes! And that is all I have to say to you. Now drink your stupid tonic.” The offending glass was practically forced under the blinking king´s nose. 

The dwarf merely stared at the smaller being, not offering any kind of response, the glass before him but waiting for a reaction. One way or the other.

Bilbo sighed, giving in to the pressing temptation that had plagued him for a while then and reached out to tuck a dark, silver-streaked lock behind a round ear.

“I don´t want to see you in pain”, he admitted almost softly, as if speaking to himself; his hand lingering for a moment...

~ ~ ~ ~

“And he just _drank_ it?”

The hobbit resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Again. Of course he drank it, Bilbo had been _sent_ to make him drink it, hadn´t he? Really, must the dwarves always be so – so - 

Ugh.

_Dwarves!_

“Wait”, the older heir interjected in some bafflement, as if trying to wrap his head around a puzzle but not quite managing to accomplish it. “He did not even threaten you? Or throw any things at you? _And_ he let you touch his ankle without any protest involved?”

“Well, of course he did! Really, you make it sound as -”

“He _likes_ you.”

And that had been Kili. 

And he had made his brother blink.

The younger heir did not quite comprehend the stares that were directed at him. 

“Well, of course he does! _You_ know, Fili!” He held up one of his hands and began to tick off apparently clear evidence that should not surprise anyone. “He keeps snarling at Bilbo for no real reason whatsoever.” There went one finger. “He made sure to lay his bedroll near you every night since the Carrock.” Two. “On which he hugged you.- Have you ever seen _Uncle_ hug anyone, brother?! He stopped hugging _us_ when we were -” And that was three. “And he near broke his ankle, and very nearly almost also his _neck_ , trying to make sure you´d survive the ni- _OW_!” 

The young dwarf glared at the one who had just cuffed him, rubbing the back of his head furiously.

Which, of course, did nothing for the pain. Somewhat imagined or otherwise. 

“Mind ya own business, lad. Ya uncle will take care of his.” The bald-headed dwarf flexed the fingers on the hand that had just made contact with the prince´s head and walked further into the room, seemingly unperturbed by the sight of the flustered, reddening hobbit who gave all the appearance of a deer finding itself confronted with a wolf that had decided it would make quite a tasty snack. A bushy brow was raised in mild enquiry. “Any more pie?”

~ ~ ~ ~

And there had been pie.

Apple pie.

With cream.

Lots of cream.

A whole lot of cream.

And even more pie.

Because the hobbit had long learned, back on that very first night, actually, when a bunch of rowdy, loud, rude, manner-less, exasperating dwarves had turned his quietly unadventurous hobbit-life around, that nothing could distract a dwarf as easily as home-made baked goods. Or that may just count for his dwarves but whichever theory proved correct, he found he was not nearly as proper and respectable a hobbit as he had always been led to believe and definitely not beneath recalling this very useful knowledge in cases of emergencies and to put it to good use.

And the current circumstances most certainly and very assuredly qualified as an emergency. Thank you.

Thorin _like_ him. 

Now that was just - 

Absurd.

Well, no; of course Thorin liked him – or at the very least respected him at this stage - but what Kili had been alluding to - 

Ridiculous.

He was quite certain any such notion had never even entered the king´s mind.

Because that´s what he was.

A king.

A _dwarven_ king.

Dwarven kings needed to marry dwarven _princesses_ and beget dwarven _heirs_. 

_But that is what Fili and Kili are for_ , a whisperingly obstinate voice suggested to him somewhere in the far, far back of his mind. 

Well.

Even if the hobbit should have been inclined to listen to it, he would have been quick to dismiss the information because even if there were some merit in it, the fact remained that he was still a _hobbit_ and a very _male_ hobbit at that and -

Oh Eru. 

When had he even started to _think_ like that? Yes, he had tucked that strand of lovely – who would have guessed it would be so soft! - hair back behind Thorin´s ear and he may have been tempted to flatten out that crease on his forehead but he would have been tempted to do that in the case of any adorable fauntling … which the king wasn´t. Of course. Fauntling. Adorable. Either. Both. At all. Not. And just because he did not _like_ the thought of Thorin being in pain and wished to ease the same ...

Oh _Eru!_

Bilbo was interested.

He was very much interested.

He was, quite possibly, and quite idiotically stupidly, in love with - 

Thorin. 

Grumpy, grouchy, cantankerous, permanently frowning, bad-tempered, cloth-headed, stubborn, rude, arrogant, overbearing, stupid, insufferable - 

Thorin. 

Right.

That was - 

Really.

That was spectacularly - 

Because honestly - 

He should - 

Not at all - 

If he had any common sense at all - 

Not even think - 

That was really quite - 

Perhaps he should just go to his room, crawl into his oversized bed, pull the heavy cover over his head, never to come out again and - 

_“Bilbo.”_

~ ~ ~ ~

Well.

That was just - 

Wonderful, really.

And here he had thought the dwarf might be in pain.

But _no_ \- 

He was just...

Drunk.

A little.

He probably would not even be _that_ under normal circumstances but the stupid dwarf had elected to – the hobbit had sniffed suspiciously at the liquid remains in the mug – honestly! He tried to hide it in a _mug_! - indulge in _ale_ while still fighting off the effects of Oin´s potion – and he had been _told_ he wasn´t to have any more interesting beverages of any sort while being treated with it but that had probably just made that _stubborn_ oaf determined to do the exact opposite, just so that he could defy them all. Oin. Him. Because Oin and Bilbo himself had been the only ones really vocal in their lecturing on that point. The rest of the dwarves had taken an entirely dwarfish approach to the matter – and any reproach – that was they were all tough, hardened creations of Mahal and it would take quite a lot more to knock them off their booted feet. There may have been an assortment of grumbles and grunts and the odd bout of outrage involved, too, but the hobbit had opted out of the mayhem once it had become clear that there really was no hope for any of them.

The fact remained -

Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain - 

Was drunk.

A little.

And asleep.

Which was all very well and absolutely fine – it was not at all the hobbit´s concern if the dwarf chose to hinder his own recovery; it was not as if he had anywhere to _be_ , after all, and if he _liked_ waking to the hammering in his head that came with a nasty hangover then far be it from the hobbit to judge him for it – but - 

There was a problem.

And it involved the hobbit.

And that problem …

Was the thick, muscular, hairy arm that was presently thrown across the upper part of the hobbit´s own body.

His body that was currently laying flat.

On his back.

On the bed.

The bed that wasn´t _his_ bed.

The bed that was the dwarf´s bed.

The bed that the unsuspecting hobbit had suddenly been pulled onto when leaning over the dwarf to ascertain that he had not developed a fever on top of his injury because he had been mumbling in his sleep about things that did not make any sense at all and strangely repetitively included Bilbo´s own name and words about _leaving_ (Not a fever. But drunk, clearly. Why would he otherwise -) and -

And now he was on the bed. Pinned to it, practically. 

Underneath a dwarfish arm. 

Lovely.

Really.

And every time he had tried to gently free himself from his prison the hold had only tightened and that _last_ time - 

Thorin Oakenshield liked to _cuddle_.

Or at least possibly drunk, medicated, fully asleep Thorin Oakenshield liked to cuddle.

With _hobbits._

With _Bilbo_.

When his hairy chest was _naked_.

And wasn´t the dwarf just … warm.

A furnace, really. A rock-hard, hairy furnace.

Who was apparently not inclined to let the hobbit escape.

And Bilbo had to be very careful in his attempts lest he should cause the dwarf to add further injury to his ankle and - 

He was really very, very lovely.

Thorin.

In his sleep.

With his long, long eyelashes and that little crease between his eyebrows and the almost peaceful expression on his usually stern, cold face …

And the hobbit was in such, such trouble!

He was in bed with Thorin while not _really_ in bed with Thorin and he was only in his nightshirt and robe because he had heard the dwarf´s moans while on his way back from the kitchen where he had gone to get a glass of warm milk with honey for his still a little sensitive throat and it was night and he had instinctively and with no little worry opened the door to the king´s room and walked over to the bed, quite forgetting about his milk, when he found the king trashing and muttering and his skin a little hot and - 

And he was nuzzling his hair.

Oh.

Well.

That -

Oh no.

No, no, no, no, no. 

No.

He was willing to accept a lot but he had his - 

Right.

He really, really needed to leave.

This bed.

Room.

The dwarf in it.

Both.

Because if he didn´t he would - 

Nope.

He´d just get out of this bed, attempt to neither wake nor further injure the dwarf in it, and - 

Instantly halted in his wriggling.

Because _that_ was a leg.

And that _leg_ had nudged itself in between his own legs. Without even requesting permission. Or giving any sign that it had that intention. No warning. Whatsoever.

How rude, really!

And on top of that - 

There was a dwarf on top of him now.

He had a blanket.

A dwarf blanket.

Bilbo Baggins had a dwarf blanket.

A heavy, warm, _hard_ dwarf blanket.

That was - 

Not good.

And it was not at all a good time to listen to that stubbornly insistent voice far, far back in his clearly befuddled mind that suggested otherwise. Nope.

The hobbit lay quite absolutely, resolutely still, hands firmly pressed into the mattress on both his sides, lest they should get any ideas into their heads. Perhaps if he pretended to not be _there_ his blanket would eventually think so, too, and move off him and -

 _Not_ start nosing his cheek!

And certainly not let it travel down to the hollow between his neck and collarbone and -

Oh _Eru!_

He was going to -

That was a _kiss._

A very soft one and _not_ on his _mouth_ , thank you very much!, but it was nevertheless a -

He had to wake the dwarf.

The dwarf was clearly dreaming and it would be so very embarrassing and he would not be able to look him in the face any longer if he should notice -

And that was quite enough of _that_ ; the hobbit really did not care for beard-burn around the general vicinity of his neck! Or his chin. Or his cheek. Eru, if the others should see - 

“Thorin”, he whispered somewhat urgently.

No response.

“Thorin!” The little hands were now pushing against naked shoulders. Did the dwarf have to be stubborn in his sleep, too? And why was he so fascinated with the hobbit´s neck – oh, _oh!_ …

Now that was quite nice, actually. He could - _no._

Bilbo made another attempt of ridding himself of his inflexible blanket without adding further injury to the afflicted ankle. Although his patience was fast giving way to panicked exasperation. Hysterics, even. Almost. Really, it just _had_ to be his luck to - 

“Stop wriggling.”

Well.

 _Now_ he was awake.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin had been … pleased.

The hobbit was in his bed.

Under him.

In his bed.

Looking delightfully flushed and a little dishevelled and wearing a mere flimsy piece of fabric over an even flimsier piece of fabric, exposing his delectable collarbones.

He had been quite in favour of waking up to the sight – and feel - of the small being in his arms – enjoying the round softness and lack of hair on his skin and the unique burglar scent that had begun to make him think of _home_ \- until said burglar had started to squirm and huff and to try and push the king away.

Not even minding his _injury_.

Blue eyes had opened slowly, staring down at the wriggling creature in mild affront.

~ ~ ~ ~

“I am not _wriggling_! I am simply trying to get out of this bed, thank you!”

The tetchy response only caused the frown to deepen.

“Why?”

What – why - 

Seriously?

The dwarf must really be addle-brained. Or still half-asleep. Or both.

Bilbo huffed, glaring up into the annoyingly handsome face.

“In case your majesty has not noticed, I am in this _bed_. Which is _not_ my bed. And about to be squashed by your majesty´s bulk. And I´d rather remain un-squashed so if your majesty would have the goodness to remove yourself so that I may leave this bed -”

“No.”

Clearly, it was the day – night – of monosyllabicity.

Wonderful.

And what did the dwarf mean _No._? If he wanted to get out of the bed he _would_ get out of the bed, no matter what his majesty – or whoever – may have to say about it! He was quite capable of choosing his own sleeping-arrangements, thank you. Really, that dwarf was really much too high-handed! Someone should really inform him that - 

“Halfling.”

And it just needed _that_! And by way of a growl, too! 

“Oh for Eru´s sake – Thorin! _Will_ you just _move!_ This is quite embarrassing enough without _you_ adding to it with your stupid stubbornness!”

The king blinked, attempting to make sense of the situation in his still somewhat sleep-hazed mind. The hobbit had - 

His gaze narrowed.

“ _You_ came to _me_. 

“What - _NO!_ ” Oh good, now the silver-streaked mane was also forming a curtain around them! “ _You_ pulled _me_ down! And really -”, the incensed hobbit went on – for Thorin to accuse him of – of _wantonness!_ “- if I had _known_ this would be so much trouble I would never have checked on you! No matter how much you moaned my name! Or how much your ankle might have been paining you! Now will you please -”

“I did _not_ moan!”

The king appeared highly insulted at the suggestion that he should take to anything so undignified as _moaning_. He had no recollection of pulling the hobbit anywhere, moreover, and if the hobbit thought he could come and practically offer himself to him only for then to - 

He would not tolerate having his heart torn out and - 

Thorin froze.

He – 

The burglar - 

The _halfling_ -

He stared at the agitated, prudish creature on his bed.

And then swooped down.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Stop wriggling.”

The king got his side pinched in response, making him wince. 

“You are a cruel burglar”, he complained. “Maiming the injured.”

The hobbit merely smiled, snuggling further into the dwarf´s chest and reaching down for a hand.

He brought its palm to his lips.

“Better?”

Thorin snorted, slowly lowering his head so as to bring their foreheads together.

There was a smile on the usually stoic face.

“Much.”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters and bow to the genius of J.R.R. Tolkien and Sir Peter Jackson.


End file.
